


Misc Tumblr Prompts

by coloredink



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, Gen, M/M, Multi, Parkour, Tumblr Prompts, sexual identity crises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-19 23:49:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/578976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coloredink/pseuds/coloredink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I was sick and bored one day, so I asked tumblr to give me fic prompts.  The results were not very good because, well, I wrote them when I was sick.</p><p>This does not mean you should run out and look for me on tumblr.  I assure you, you'll be disappointed by what you find there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The one where Sherlock is straight and John is bisexual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> urbangrey asked for one where Sherlock is straight and John is bisexual, and John has to reassure Sherlock that he's not having a sexual identity crisis.

Before John knew quite what he was doing, he'd pressed his lips to Sherlock, and Sherlock backed up so quickly that his head thunked into the wall behind him. His eyes were wide, his lips slightly parted, and he looked really, well, really _kissable_ in that moment. He also looked really freaked out, so John dropped Sherlock's hands and backed up.

"Sorry," John stammered out. "Sorry, sorry, must have misread--"

Sherlock stared. "I thought you were straight."

John blinked.

"There's something." Sherlock's hands reached up to tug at his hair. He always looked annoyed when he failed to deduce something correctly, but this time he also looked downright despairing. "There's always something. But this--argh!"

"Well, you haven't seen me date any men," John pointed out, wondering why he was bothering to reassure Sherlock when he'd just been--had he just been rejected? This felt a lot like a rejection. He was going to feel that sting, in a minute, but it would have to wait until Sherlock wasn't pacing around. "So there wasn't any data."

Sherlock made a face. "If I were to see a man and a woman on a date, I would not necessarily conclude that either one of them was heterosexual, even if they happened to be in a heterosexual relationship at the time. That is theorising in advance of the facts, which I _know_ I have lectured you on countless times. Conversely, just because I haven't observed you fellating a gentleman in the alleyway doesn't mean that I shouldn't have known you were bisexual. After all, you haven't seen me date men _or_ women, and yet you assumed I was gay--"

"Er, are you not gay?"

"No."

John wanted to ask _are you sure?_ but restrained himself. "Oh."

"I would rank myself, at present, a 2 on the Kinsey Scale," Sherlock elaborated.

"Okay, so not...not _totally_ straight," said John. Just. _Very_ straight.

"Very few people are 100% one or the other. Like many things in nature, sexuality does not exist in a strict binary." Sherlock was avoiding looking at John again and had instead started fiddling with his cuffs. John cocked his head. Sherlock was...twitchy, often, but this was downright fidgety.

"You said, 'at present,'" John said, slowly. When Sherlock did not immediately reply, he went on, "So what would you have said you were yesterday?"

"A 1. Or perhaps a 0."

"So...you're more gay today, is what you're saying."

Sherlock's gaze flickered up to John, then over to the baseboards, then back to John. "A person's sexuality can fluctuate. You know that."

"Right." John did know that. He was a bisexual man, after all. Some days he woke up and wanted pussy. Some days he woke up and wanted cock. And it appeared that Sherlock was not completely straight. "How about we try this on, then? Call it an...experiment."

The word _experiment_ perked Sherlock right up. "Yes, I--yes."

"All right, then." John offered his hand. "Let's go."


	2. The one where Sherlock does parkour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked for Sherlock doing parkour. I didn't do a very good job, mostly because I was too lazy to come up with a good route, so this one's kinda boring.

"And where are you off to, then?" John asked, eyebrows raised. Sherlock had just come out of his bedroom dressed in baggy jeans, a long-sleeved t-shirt, and trainers.

"Studying," said Sherlock. He stopped at the door. "Coming?"

John put down his newspaper. "Sure."

They took a cab to the neighbourhood of Piccadilly Circus. Loitering outside the Tube was a gaggle of young people, mostly men, but with a few women. One of them notiecd Sherlock coming and perked up. "Hey, Sher!" he called, and clapped Sherlock on the shoulder. "Long time no see!"

Sherlock lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "Busy."

"Run's from here to Golden Square today," he said. "You're not gonna have much time to look at the route."

"I've run it before," said Sherlock. John could catch snatches of the others' conversations, things like, "fuck up my hands" and "noticed the ledge was crumbling" and "rained recently, so it's a bit slick." He judged them to be mostly in their early twenties, and some of them even in their teens. He felt very old and out of place.

Another young man, this one slightly older than the rest, clapped his hands, and the little gaggle fell quiet. "All right, I want to get the run started on time, so if there's no more questions, we'll meet up at Golden Square. All right? Yeah?"

John felt Sherlock's fingers crush against his elbow. Sherlock leaned in close and murmured, "Just stay with me, and you'll be fine. If you fall behind, we'll meet at Golden Square." John nodded, wondering what exactly was going on.

"All right," said the man who was apparently the leader. "Then let's go!"

The pack bolted, Sherlock among them. It took John a moment to realise that he was supposed to follow, and at that point Sherlock had already rounded the corner to Great WindMill St., grabbing the traffic light pole to help him make the turn. It was comparatively uncrowded, compared to the street they'd just been on, and so it was easy to keep Sherlock in sight; many of the others from the group, too, had taken this road.

They came to the intersection of Denham St. and Great Windmill St. Sherlock simply hopped over the rail and kept going. John rolled his eyes, but it wasn't the first time the great long-legged bastard had done this, and it was easy enough to go around. Sherlock pelted up Denham St., which was narrow and also fairly low-traffic, though John noticed that some of the others were weaving in and out of the bollards on the pavement, apparently just as a challenge to themselves. They made the turn onto Sherwood St., Sherlock again using a pole to help him swing around into the turn. Sherlock hopped over a sandwich board--why not just go around it?--and another railing, and then the park at Golden Square loomed ahead of them, on the left. Sherlock sailed over that railing as well and seemed to start running again before he'd even properly touched the grass.

Sherlock bounded up onto a low wall inside the park and ran along it until it ended, at which point he leapt across the path to the wall opposite and did the same there, until he'd rounded the park. He leapt off the wall, onto a bench, and from there over a bin to another bench, slamming his leg into the bin on the way. He swore, but repeated the maneouvre, this time into a potted plant. He pushed off the planter and landed in a crouch on the ground, straightening up slowly.

John didn't follow him on any of that. They were in the park now, which was apparently their final destination, and Sherlock, as far as he could tell, was just larking about. John had a seat on a bench and watched. When it looked like Sherlock was done, he applauded.

The rest of the group had trickled in at this point. One of the young women shook her head. "He almost always gets there first."

"Better knowledge of London," Sherlock acknowledged. "And I don't waste my time on showmanship."

One of the young men gave him a high-five. "That's the spirit of parkour, man."


	3. The one where Sherlock writes his will

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked for Mycroft trying to make Sherlock be a grownup, and it backfiring horribly. This could ostensibly be part of [The Cinnamon Peeler](http://archiveofourown.org/series/6926) universe.

Mycroft weighed the merits of taking Sherlock to a restaurant. On the one hand, Sherlock was frequently an embarrassment in public. On the other, Mycroft had reached the point in his stewardship of his younger brother where he no longer felt it was an embarrassment to _him_. If Sherlock embarrassed anyone, it was himself, though he might think otherwise. And Mycroft did so enjoy a nice meal out.

Enticing Sherlock to a nice meal was, surprisingly, not the difficult part. Mycroft allowed himself to speculate that perhaps Sherlock missed fine dining, and that his palate had not been destroyed by all those cigarettes. He realised his error when, as soon as they were seated, Sherlock glanced at the wine menu and proceeded to order a bottle of the most expensive wine on it.

"You don't mind, do you?" he gave Mycroft a smile across the table that anyone else might have labeled ingratiating. Mycroft knew better.

"Not at all." Mycroft gave him his most sharkish smile in return as he unfolded his napkin. "Anything for my dear brother."

"So, what's the occasion?" Sherlock drawled, as the sommelier poured Sherlock a taste. He swirled it around in his glass, sniffed, and downed the entire taste in one swallow. He gave a nod to the sommelier, who poured Sherlock a glass and left the bottle on the table. Sherlock immediately drained his glass and poured himself another.

Mycroft kept a smile fixed on his face. "Do I need a reason to treat my little brother?"

"Yes."

The waiter brought their salads. Mycroft picked up his fork. "I just want to see how you're doing."

"You want to lecture me," Sherlock corrected. "Mummy put you up to this. She's been harrassing you again." He stabbed his grape tomato with his fork.

Mycroft felt a muscle in his jaw go tense as he pushed his lettuce leaves around. "She's concerned about you. As am I. As far as we can determine, you have no income and no prospects."

"And let's not forget the drugs," Sherlock added, loud enough that Mycroft noticed the diners at the table next to them pause in their chewing.

"Yes, can't forget that," Mycroft agreed. He watched as Sherlock inhaled his wine. The waiter came and poured him another one. "So you see why we're concerned."

"I see," Sherlock agreed. He started on his cucumbers next. "I just don't see why it's any. Of. Your. Business."

Mycroft sighed. He knew that Sherlock liked to see him sigh, and sure enough, his younger brother's eyes brightened across the table. "Because we're your family. Mummy is distraught. No mother wants to think about outliving her child--"

Sherlock gave a harsh bark of laughter. Mycroft heard the diners at the table behind him raise their voices in an attempt to not pay any attention to the drama. "Oh. _Oh_. So that's what this is about, then. Death, inheritances--are you here to talk to me about my last will and testament? What with the heroin and all. Yes, let's talk about that." He finished his glass and fished a pen out of his pocket, then groped around until he came up with the napkin. "Let's see. I, Sherlock Holmes, being of sound mind and body..."

Mycroft closed his eyes and counted to ten, while Sherlock continued to drone out the preamble to his will. "Sherlock..."

"Number one. Nothing to Mycroft." Sherlock's writing, normally very precise, skidded everywhere across the napkin. He had his head cocked and his tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth, like a child practising his letters. "Nothing to Mummy, either," he said contemplatively, although he didn't write that part down. "But I fully intend to outlive that old bat, so. Just nothing to Mycroft, then. And," he started writing again, "number two: my brain to science."

"Just science?" Mycroft arched his eyebrows. "That's not very precise."

"Shut up," Sherlock snarled, but he scratched out the last word and replaced it with something. A name, Mycroft thought, though he couldn't see it very well from here. Sherlock capped his pen and held up the napkin, beaming. "There. I think that's everything."

"It's not legal," Mycroft pointed out.

"I'll get it made legal," Sherlock pronounced. "Tomorrow."


End file.
